No light
by wierdsquirrelgirl
Summary: It was the first Robin that died at the Joker's hand, and with his death the world mourned. But Robins never stay dead for long, and Dick Grayson found himself resurrected at the hands of an old enemy. Eventually he escapes, but his captivity has left him changed. As his emergence leaves a bloody path, one thing is on Batman's mind. Can he be redeemed?
1. Chapter 1

Dick watch as the light faded out of his eye as he retracted the knife.

What had he done?

He felt cold. It traveled from his blood drenched hand down his arm. Down his spine, up his neck, and down his legs.

The floor was shaking. His legs gave out.

He landed next to his victims head. A look of shock still etched on his face.

What had he done?

He could feel the cold travel to his stomach. Twisting it. He got on his knees and threw up.

A cry leaked out. High pitched like a wounded animal.

What had he done?

It came out again. This time more hoarse. Then again and again. Distantly he realized he was sobbing.

What had he done?

He killed someone.

Oh God what had he done.

no

No

No!

Dick took a few ragged breaths, trying to calm himself.

He had killed Slade Wilson, Deathstroke, the man who has had a sick obsession with him for years. Who had acted out on that obsession by stealing one of Ra's al Goul's unholy Lazarus Pits just so he could have Robin all to himself.

Dick should be dead. He was dead. Died by that Clown's hand in the dark and all alone. No Batman, no Babs. Just him and that crowbar warm with his blood, mocking him. He thought it would be the end there when the Joker left, leaving a ticking time bomb in his wake.

But no, fate had other plans for him.

He had been Slade's slave.

Dick got up slowly. He looked down at the body below him. He had been that man's slave. Now he was free.

Dick looked at his clothes. They were drenched in blood. He felt the cold return to his throat. No, he fought it down. Not now, not for this monster.

Numbly he walked out of the room and closed the door. There was a bathroom to the right of the hallway. He stepped inside.

He stepped into the shower, taking his clothes off down to his underwear. The blood was sticky on his chest. He turned the water on. It rolled off him in pink rivers down the drain. Grabbing the soap, he calmly lathered it in his hands. He rubbed the lather over his chest and watched it turn a salmon color.

The blood was also in his mouth, he realized. It must have gotten splattered on his face. He took his hand and wiped his cheek. It came back smeared a sudsy red.

After he was done he stepped out, leaving his clothes inside.

The blood was still in his mouth. He walked to the sink and rinsed it out.

It wasn't enough. He could still taste the blood. He reached for his toothbrush. The toothbrush that had been appointed his when he first woke up here. The toothbrush that was one of the few things he could call his in this hell.

He squeezed toothpaste on it and brushed calmly. Calmly, not frantically like he wanted to. No so fast that it would shred his gums and teeth and get rid of the taste of Slade's blood in his mouth.

Just. Calm.

Once he was dome Dick washed his mouth out. He then looked at himself in the mirror.

His hair was long, down to his shoulders, longer then he would ever let it grow on his own. Slade didn't let his cut it. Said he liked it that way. Dick reached into the medicine cabinet and the blunted scissors Slade used for himself. He pulled his hair back and cut it in one fell swoop. The hair fell onto the floor like tiny dead bodies. Dick looked at himself. It was kind of uneven, but it would have to do.

Without the long locks blocking his view Dick could see how gaunt his face was. All his baby fat was gone. All that was left were hollow cheeks and empty eyes.

So this was the face of a murderer.

He held out for so long, never giving into his captors demands, never letting himself be twisted into the monster Slade was.

Until today.

Now it all seems wasted. The pain, the torture, the absolute humiliation, it was all for nothing.

 _You should have done it a long time ago._

He would have been saved all the pain if he just gave in earlier.

Dick turned away from the mirror. He walked out the bathroom and back to the bedroom where the body was.

Dick looked at it for a moment. Slade's body was hunched over with his head turned to him. Gray hair was splattered with blood. His eyepatch had come off, revealing a dark hole that Dick had never seen.

He walked around the blood puddle and went for the dresser where his clothes were. He pulled out a red shirt, thick black jeans, and socks. These were about all he had in way of normal clothes. He didn't have any shoes, so he took a pair of Slade's black steal toed boot. He also took a black leather jacket. It was all Slade had in terms of outerwear.

He walked out of the room quickly, ignoring how the boots were slightly too big for him and how the jacket had another man's smell to it.

This was it, he was about to leave.

He reached the end of the hallway and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. At the top was a thick steel door. He couldn't count the hours he spent trying to break that thing. A few times it had opened, giving him a brief but wonderful moment if hope, only to reveal Slade on the other side.

Today it was open. A testimony to how unprepared for Dick's attack Slade was. It had been a long time since he had done anything to try to get out.

There was a sliver of light coming in.

Daylight, the first he had seen in an eternity.

Dick walked up the stair, each one a mountain as he slowly made his way up.

He reached the end. For a while Dick just stood there, unable to cross the boundary that had been set before him.

 _You can do this. You've already done so much._

Slowly he grasped the door's edge. It took a large amount of effort to try to open it. His atrophied muscles hadn't done this much work in ages. It squeaked, gave a little, then with one enormous push that left him breathless, it rolled away

Light surrounded him.


	2. Chapter 2

Dick covered his eyes with his arm. The pure white light was blinding. He felt warmth over his body. As his vision adjusted, he was able to make out his surroundings.

It was an abandoned house. Broken and ransacked everywhere. He turned around. The door that kept him prisoner for so long looked like a wood panel wall from the outside. He closed it with a click.

He was free.

He was Free!

Tears began to well up in his eyes. He wiped them away quickly.

Dick looked out the window. For a moment he just let himself bask in the sun. It was almost sunset. How long had it been since he'd seen the sunset.

He didn't know.

He didn't know how long he had been underground. He didn't know what year it was. He didn't know what had happened since his death.

He didn't know how old he was.

He knew nothing.

This thought set something off in him. Dick started looking around the house for something. What, he didn't know. A computer, a newspaper, a phonebook, something! Just something.

He noticed a time magazine sitting under a dining chair, keeping a crooked leg steady. He picked it up, knocking the chair over.

It looked recent, maybe even newly bought. The subject was unimportant; he just looked at the date. It was labeled a little over two years since his death.

Two years?

It had only been two years since his death and resurrection? Since his kidnapping and torture? It had felt like an eternity.

Dick set the magazine down on the table.

He had always wondered what had happened during his captivity. What had Bruce done? How badly had he mourned? What about his team? How badly had they taken his death? And Wally, he must have taken it so bad.

Things were complicated between them. Dick, before having to chase down the Joker, had just gotten permission to reveal his identity to Wally. He wished he had taken the time to do so instead of going to the mission. How was he to know it would be his last day alive?

They all needed to know he was alive now. They needed to know that they didn't have to mourn anymore.

He needed to reach them.

Dick found the front door and immediately went outside.

All around him was forest. The trees seemed to go on forever. The only sign of civilization was a dirt road in front of what Dick now saw to be a log cabin. On the road was a black motorcycle. It must have been Slade's. Dick practically jumped to get to it.

It took longer than he would have liked to admit to hotwire the thing. His skills had gotten rusty. With a sputter it started.

"YES." Dick pumped his fist in the air.

He hopped on and sped down the road.

.

After about an hour night fell. Dirt road met asphalt and eventually Dick could see city lights. Images of Gotham with it's old dark buildings and gargoyles hiding low on steeple tops appeared in his mind. He passed a sign saying "Welcome to Jump City!" and the illusion was broken.

He hit traffic and had to swerve in and out of lanes to make progress. Tall buildings surrounded him. Dick could almost imagine a man in a cape grappling across rooftops.

After scanning a bit dick found what he was looking for, a phone booth. He parked in an adjoining ally and jumped to get to it, a grin plastered on his face.

He picked up the phone and pressed zero for a collect call. This was exactly what he needed. Very early on in his training Batman had instilled in him a set of numbers he could call at any time. Dick could dial different ones depending on the emergency. He reached to press a digit when-

 _Blood covered his hands._

He gave a shout and dropped the phone.

What was that?

Dick looked at his hands. They were clean, no blood.

 _Look at what you've done._

What?

 _Slade hunched over, a look of shock still on his face._

No. No!

Th- that was gone. He left that behind. Left it dead and buried in that basement to be forgotten.

 _He watch as the light faded out of his eye as he retracted the knife._

 _There is no forgetting this. What you've done is unforgivable. How did you think you could just call Bruce like that? As if you were still his partner. As if you weren't a cold blooded murderer._

Bruce would understand. He had to.

 _Batman and Robin don't kill. Ever._

Circumstances were different. He was trapped, with no way out. He needed to get out of that hell hole!

 _You've been trapped plenty of times before. You should have been able to get out this time too._

He wasn't able to. As good as he was, Slade was so much better. He did everything in his power to keep him locked up and in his control.

 _Not everythi-_

Enough!

This crazy conversation was getting him nowhere.

He took a deep breath. Dick picked up the phone, still hanging on it's cord with the dial tone still ringing. He put the receiver to his face. He reached out to press a digit and…

And…

His hand was shaking.

Dick clenched it, trying to calm himself down. Again, he was going to press the…

His face was wet.

He was crying.

His body started to shake. Slowly he hung up the phone.

He can't do this.

He backed up against the booth wall and slowly slid down.

He was a murderer, a dirty killer. How could Bruce ever accept him again?

Dick wiped at the tears, but the kept coming. His eyes were a river, he swiped frantically.

He could never go back home. After all that hoping, dreaming in the dark of the day he could go back to the manor and finally go back to his old life, it was taken away.

Slade had taken that. In his final act he had taken Dick's one chance at freedom and warped it into another nightmare. Dick could almost hear the man laughing.

Outside a young couple was looking at him in fright. They must be thinking he was high. The woman had a cellphone out and must have been calling the police. No. He couldn't be arrested. He couldn't be found out at all.

Dick got up hurriedly, almost slamming into the woman trying to get away.

"Whoa, hey are you okay?" The guy said, protectively putting his arm around his girlfriend.

No. He was not okay.

"Can you hear me? Are you okay?" The man was in front of him now, his arms held out in a sign of comfort.

It was too much. He was so focused on getting home before that he didn't even notice his surroundings. Now he did. There were cars honking in his ears, TV signs flashing, people shouting.

The world began to blur. His hearing went. Then in a burst it became all too much. There was a screeching in his ears. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe and there was-

 _Green everywhere._

 _His lungs were full of water. He grasped at his throat but could not get any air. He was flailing this way and that but couldn't find any oxygen. Pain was everywhere. It was like he was being pulled apart and put together again over and over and over and-_

 _Two hands grabbed him and ripped him to the surface._

"Stop it! Just stop!"

The man jumped back, taken aback. His girlfriend got behind him, afraid.

Dick couldn't take this anymore. He had to get away. He ran to the ally where his bike was and blasted the engine on. He took off deeper into the ally and onto an empty side road.

He was going so fast. It was only his reflexes that kept him from crashing. He nearly skidded off the street on a turn.

Finally he slowed down enough to see where he was going. He had made it to some abandoned slum. Old buildings were everywhere. After a while he parked right in an old theater. He had just enough sense to hide the motorcycle behind the counter.

Dick walked up a flight of stairs to the second story of the theater. He sat in a chair in the back and tried to calm himself.

He tried to breath. In and out. In, out.

What was happening to him?

He was out now. He was out of that damn basement. So why did he still feel trapped?

 _You will never be rid of it. No matter where you go. No matter what you do. You'll always be down there, in the dark, begging for mercy._

No! no that wasn't right. He escaped. He was out of that prison and now he was free.

In, out. In, out.

He was out. Dick had to remember that.

In, out. In, out.

He was so tired.

In, out.

When will this day end?

 _It will never end._

No, no it will end. He won't be like this forever. He can't.

In, out.

The rhythm of his own breath began to relax Dick. He let out a soft yawn, and his head drifted down. Without much resistance he fell into a dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hell no!" Someone shouted in the distance.

Dick woke with a start. He looked around frantically for the disturbance. Then he looked down to the theater's stage. Two people were standing on it. One was a blond woman in tight purple shorts and a black tank top; the other was a balding middle aged man.

"Hey, I'm paying you good money for this!" The man advanced towards her aggressively. The woman took a step back. Dick got up from his seat and headed to the railing to get a better view of what was happening.

"Not for that you're not! Damn it man I have some dignity." She took another step back.

"The hell ya do." The man reached to the back of his pants and pulled out a gun. The woman eyes widened and she let out a scream.

Oh no.

Before Dick could even think about what he was doing, he had scaled the railing and jumped and grasped an exposed rafter.

He almost lost his grip as soon as he latched on. It had been such a long time since his vigilantism and he had gotten weak. With pure perseverance he used all his strength to pull himself up. Dick stood up and balanced himself. He then carefully navigated the exposed beams until he was right over the stage.

Briefly he panicked. What was he doing? He wasn't Robin right now. He had no gear, no mask, and no one to back him up if things went south. He had, was, nothing right now.

Damn it! He could do this; Dick told himself. Batman had trained his well enough that he could take down a common thug without gear, and it was dark enough that he didn't necessarily need a mask. He could do this.

The only real curveball was the gun. Without his under armor one shout could kill him. Dick would have to disarm the man without an of Robin's usual theatrics.

The woman was kneeling at this point. The gun was pointed right at her head. She had tears in her eyes.

"Please, don't do this. I- I have my Ma at home. She needs me okay, she needs me!" She grew hysterical as the man reached for her.

"Look; I get it. I really do. So listen, if you ever want to go back to her again, just do what I say. We don't have to make a big deal out of this."

 _That was a lie. This man will never let her go back._

He went to grab her head.

 _Hand entwined in hair; forcing his head forward._

No, now was not the time.

In one fluid motion he dropped down behind the man, grabbed the arm holding the gun, and pointed it towards the ceiling. The man automatically pulled the trigger, but the shot went off harmlessly in the air. Dick quickly twisted the handle between the pointer finger and the thumb, the weakest part of any grip, and it slid right out. He then kicked the man at the inside of his knee and to knock him off his feet.

Not knowing what else to do with the gun at the moment, he didn't have the time to dismantle it; Dick held it at his side.

"That's enough!" He said with his best authoritative voice.

The woman got up immediately. She still looked scared, but also relieved.

"Get out of hear." He said to her. She didn't hesitate and ran out. He watched her leave out the back door. Dick then turned to the man.

Dick got a closer look at the man. He was a middle aged caucasian, balding, had thick glasses. He was nicely dressed with a blue suit and red tie. He also had a tracking anklet. The type used for high profile parolees.

"Please don't shoot me. L- look, this is my first time doing this sort of thing; my first and my last. I swear!" The man must not know his tracker was showing.

 _Who else has he victimized? Who else has fallen to this man's perversions?_

Now the question came. What to do with him? He had no phone, no way to call the police. He couldn't just let the man go.

Dick made to knock him out with the butt of his gun, when he saw it. The man's sleeves had ridden up to reveal tiny scratch marks on his arm.

 _He scratched and bit like a rabid animal, but strong arms held him down._

Dick pointed the gun at him

"Get on the ground! Hands behind your head!"

Dick didn't know what he was doing. All he knew was the image of tiny hands clawing at this man for release.

The man complied. He got on his knees, entwining his fingers behind his head. He looked scared out of his mind.

 _Kill him._

What?

 _He deserves to die._

No, he couldn't.

 _This man is already on the police radar. He was able to do all of this right under their noses. What else has he done?_

I don't kill.

 _Have you forgotten already? You already have. What is second time?_

But, but…

 _How many times has this sicko walked away under someone's watch? Who else will be his victim? The system failed, and some poor child paid the price._

Dick adjusted his grip on the gun.

What was he going to do?

 _Kill him._

No!

 _Do it._

He couldn't.

 _You can._

He won't!

"Look buddy, I swear I won't ever do this again. This was a onetime thing."

 _Tiny hands clawing for release._

 _Do it._

Dick aimed the gun.

"I swear!"

 _A shout in the dark and a hand gripping his side._

"I-"

A shot echoed.

The man fell back, a single hole in the middle of his forehead.


	4. Chapter 4

Dick looked down at the corpse at his feet. He looked at the gun in his hand. It was still smoking at the barrel.

He did it. He had killed again.

Dick slowly put the gun on the ground. He then walked over to the man.

He went through the man's pockets to find something. He needed to know. He needed to know who his new victim was. In the front pocket Dick found a brown leather wallet. He flipped it open. Inside was an ID with the man's face. It said his name was Ronald O'Connor, age fifty-two, blood type AB positive. It had a dot on the side denoting that he was an organ donor.

Next to the ID was a family picture. It had him next to a woman with a wedding ring on her finger, his wife. Next to her was a young couple. The man looked like a younger version of Ronald. His wife's arms were around him. In front of them was a little girl, about five, giving the biggest toothiest grin. She was waving at the camera.

Dick looked at the marks on Ronald's arms.

Sick freak.

 _You did good killing him. He'll never hurt that little girl again_.

Dick had no reaction. He felt entirely numb. This wasn't like when he killed Slade. He felt no panic attack at what he had just done. This time it had been a conscious decision. This man will never hurt anyone again

 _Just like Slade._

He looked in the wallet some more. In the pocket was a couple of hundred dollar bills. Ronald must have planned to use the money for tonight. Dick pocketed the money, distantly aware that he had nothing but a motorcycle and the clothes on his back. Not enough to survive with.

He was about to walk away when he looked at the gun on the floor. He picked it up and really looked at it for the first time. It was a 9mm pistol. It was all black and had a textured grip. Could be found at any gun shop.

Dick held it for a second, then tucked it in his pants.

He headed towards the front and retrieved his bike. Dick wasn't sure if this was the type of area that reported gunshots or not, but he didn't want to find out.

He drove out of the theater, down the road, and after a while back into what could be called civilization. It was still a seedy area, but the buildings looked less abandoned and more decrepit. The few people that were out were prostitutes and drug dealers along with a few homeless. They all kept to the allies and side streets.

Dick's stomach started to rumble. It had been a long time since he had eaten anything. He pulled up to a twenty-four hour convenience store and parked. He walked inside went for the refrigerated aisle. Dick picked out a sandwich. Briefly he looked at the camera in the corner, but one glance at how old it was and he knew it wouldn't pick up more than a few blocky pixels.

He went to the counter and pulled out the cash. He couldn't pay with a hundred dollars, so after some looking he found a twenty. He handed it to the checkout, who had a slight look on his face from seeing all those hundreds but said nothing.

He headed out the door and sat on his bike, and started to eat. Now that there was food in front of him, his stomach really started to let him know it was hungry. He had to restrain himself from garbling it all down.

After he was done he just sat there, thinking.

He had killed two men. He could now be defined as a serial killer. Dick didn't know what to feel about that. On one hand he was going against the very pinnacle of all of Batman's teachings, every single thing he ever learned from his mentor, his father, went against this act. His chest hurt at the thought.

On the other hand those men wouldn't hurt anyone anymore

Ronald will never hurt his niece again, and Slade,

" _I will never leave you alone Richard. As long as I'm alive I will be with you. Even if you somehow escape I'll hunt you down and bring you right back here. That is a promise."_

Slade will never touch him again.

How many people are still suffering, though? How many villains are walking out of jail each day and going right back to a life of crime? It was something Dick saw everyday as Robin and questioned, but now that he suffered so much under the hand of one of those villains he had a whole new perspective. He had an empathy now that he didn't know before.

He could almost feel the hands on that little girl, thinking about how she must have felt being betrayed by her own uncle.

He stopped that. He stopped it in away Batman never could.

Never will.

All this time he could have stopped all of the suffering of Gotham, if he just killed the pathetic leaches that lived in the cities underbelly. Leaches like Two-face and the Scarecrow, like Killer Crocker and Clayface and the Joker.

The Joker.

He never would have died if it wasn't for that demented clown. He never would have been put in a position to be abducted by Slade, and fall to his sick perversions. If Batman had just manned up and put that death worshipping piece of garbage to sleep, then Dick wouldn't even be in this dilemma.

He wouldn't have had to take his tormentor's life.

Dick clutched his head, feeling a headache coming.

Why, why did he have to be put in this position?

He wanted to go back, back to the innocent boy who looked up to his mentor for all the answers. Who could go out at night to protect the innocent and come back to the manor to a warm bed and a loving home.

He wanted to go home.

But there was no going home. He had doomed himself to that fact when he killed Slade and broke the number one rule.

He couldn't go to his friends either, Dick realized. They would reject him just as much as Batman would. He couldn't go to Superboy or Megan, to Kal or Artemis or Wally.

Wally.

The thought of him brought an ache to his heart. Wally was his best friend, he just couldn't imagine him rejecting Dick. But he would, he would have to. Dick was the villain now. They were enemies.

His whole body felt heavy at the thought. If they ever met, they would have to fight each other. He wasn't sure he would be able to do that.

Dick threw away the wrapper and got on the bike. He needed to find somewhere to stay. And now that he had some money he had opinions. He drove around until he found a motel. It was right next to a strip club and was probably used to giving hourly rates. When he came in and asked the man for a room for the night he looked honestly surprised. Still he took the cash, and gave dick a key.

The room was ratty and old, but dick wasn't about to complain.

Not wanting to lay in his boxers on the bed, which had stains all over it, he just got under the covers and rested his head on the pillow.

For a time he just laid down, listening to the world around him. The room next door was playing music. He could hear two people argue above him. Behind the headboard he could hear the motor of the air conditioner.

The basement was never this noisy. It was as quite as a graveyard, and seemed to snuffed out all sound including words. While he was in there Dick would sometimes bang things against the wall, or against each other, or against himself. Anything to hear something again.

Once in the beginning Slade felt generous and brought down a radio for him to listen to. This was when Dick still had the will to escape though. He had cannibalize the radio for parts and tried build lock picks for the door. He had almost finished when Slade found and destroyed them. He hadn't even been that upset, they ware a pathetic attempt at escape. Probably couldn't open a paper bag. Still, he crushed it in front of Dickson face and backhanded him so hard he crashed into the wall.

Then Slade processed to-

No.

Dick stopped his training of thought. He was out now. He never had to think about those things again.

He turned to his side and tried to get comfortable, but somehow he knew that sleep would elude him tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

The clock on the nightstand said six o'clock am. Dick had been staring at it all night. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep, like he predicted. He tried, but his thoughts were his worst enemy right now, and they were winning.

Finally he got up. He stretch his limbs. The bed had not been comfy. He was sure he would aches for days after this.

Now the question he had been avoiding. What to do now.

He had no home, no friends, no life. He had to start from scratch with everything, but where to start?

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose. Perhaps it would be better to go by touch. This was all so huge, and he had just escaped captivity.

First things first, he needed to find out what had happened since his death. With that in mind Dick decided he needed to get out.

He headed out the door and got on his bike. Remembering yesterday's panic attack, Dick tried to steel himself as best he could. After some deep breaths he road off. He drove to the middle of the city. The anxiety blossomed in the back of his mind like one of Poison Ivy's toxic flowers, but he kept it at bay. He reached a park with many stands. Dick parked and walked up to the one selling newspapers.

"Beautiful day today, isn't it sir?" The man at the stall said.

For a moment everything froze. Dick felt his tongue go numb. It had been so long since he talked to someone in a normal conversation. He didn't know what to do. After a moment he was able to force out:

"It is." Noticing how skittish he was, the man said nothing else. Dick recovered his thoughts and looked at the various articles on sale. They ranged from the stock market to local news.

The one that caught his attention showed a exploding building. He picked it up. It read: JOKER STRIKES AGAIN! BOMBS GOTHAM NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM!

"Oh yeah, that one's been selling like hotcakes today. I'll tell you, whenever the Joker hits the press, people go nuts. It may be bad for Gotham, but its certainly good for business." The man chimed in. Dick barely registered him.

The Joker was out? He was still alive and thriving, after what he'd done? He- he could hardly believe this.

Dick knew that Batman would likely not kill the Joker for his death, but at the very least he expected him to put that monster away for good. Somewhere deep and dark, where he would never feel things like hope or joy again. Where he could live out the rest of his pathetic existence alone.

But no, he's out. Out causing other people the same grief he caused Dick.

 _Shows how much Bruce cares about you. Couldn't even bother to put your killer to justice._

It was wrong. _This_ was wrong.

 _Dose he even care that you're gone?_

Dick didn't have an answer to that.

He turned the page. He got his answer.

It read: Red Robin Takes Down the Joker!, with a picture of some kid in a red and black version of his outfit and a red domino mask kicking the Joker in the face with a smile.

 _He replaced you. After everything you've been through together. He replaced you like some dead pet._

"Hey, you okay buddy?" The man asked him. Dick looked down at his hands. He had completely crushed the paper.

"A real tragedy, I know. That masked wirdo is crazy to let kids fight with him. Isn't there a law or something against that? I guess it wouldn't matter. By the way, you are paying for that right?"

Dick silently gave the man a dollar for the paper. He then stalked off to a bench where he sat down to read the rest of the story. It said that this 'Red Robin' had been working with Batman for a few months now. It said that he was much rougher then the old Robin, who had "disappeared under mysterious circumstances."

He couldn't believe this. He just couldn't. While he had been in the basement he had imagined horrible things being done in the wake of his death. Batman going off the deep end without Robin to stabilize him. Young Justice being dissolved to protect the others from his fate. He even imagined Joker being permanently crippled to end his champagne of chaos.

Never had he imagined being tossed aside. His memory trampled on. His name stolen. Was this new kid's name Richard too? Was he a gymnast? Did he make silly puns to Batman to cheer him up?

How much had Dick been replaced by this imposter?

 _Completely._

Dick felt a hate build up in him. It was foreign, he had never experienced this hot, scorching fury that built up in his gut.

How dare he. How dare Bruce do this to him?

For the first time since being resurrected, Dick felt alive. The heat spread like lava through his veins. He got up, threw the paper away and headed towards the bike.

Bruce couldn't do this. He won't just be pushed to the side.

 _He will not forget you. Batman will remember the dead Robin. He will be made to remember._

Yes, he will. He needed to plan. He needed to figure out how to make the Bat burn like he is.

He headed back to the motel. On his way he saw a shop selling auto parts. In the window there were several motorcycle helmets. One caught his eye. It was thin and sleek and red. Dick cupped his eye. He didn't have a disguise to go about any business. Let alone the plans he had in mind. He walked into the shop, and picked up the helmet.

"How much for this?" He asked the cashier.

"Huh, that old thing? That's an old custom job I did back in college. I make way better stuff now." The man said, who Dick realized was the owner of the store.

"I like this. How much?" The man looked at him scrutinizingly.

"Two-hundred. No less."

"Deal." Dick pulled out his money and took the last hundred bills he had and gave it to the man. After a moment's thought he also got a pair of black leather biker gloves and paid ten dollars for them.

"Well, it's yours now. Have a nice day."

"You too." Dick said as he put the gloves on. He went back to the motel. He sat and put the helmet on his lap. It stared at him with black mirror eyes . It will need work, there was no mouth, no way to talk, and the clatch at the back was just a standard buckle, wouldn't stand up to any heavy work. It was a start though. It spoke to him, spoke to the heat in his veins.

 _It can be the frame for the new you, the start of a person Batman can not ignore._

He needed resources, things you couldn't just get at the local store. He needed armor and electronics and weapons. The gun was a start, but it won't hold up in any real fight.

He had the most important thing though, his training. He may be weak now, but working out should fix that.

What he really needed was money. What he had left wouldn't last. Not if he wanted to eat and sleep on a proper bed. He would have to go out tonight to do something. What, he didn't know.

A yawn distracted him from his thoughts. It had been a long time since he had slept.

 _You need to rest. Tonight will be busy._

He looked at the helmet.

 _There will be time for action later. Now rest._

"Okay." He said out loud. He put the helmet under the bed and laid down.

.

Dreams of dancing flames and acidic green water tore through his mind. A manic laugh echoed into a great nothingness, and hundreds of hands from all sides grabbed at him and wouldn't let go. He thrashed and thrashed, but could not find a way to escape the hell he was in. Then everything vanished and he was left floating in a swirling darkness. A shriek hitting a pitch unknown to man ripped through the air, growing louder and louder as it seemed to race towards him. Just as the sound became unbearable and threatened to rupture his ears, it slammed into him, physically knocking him back. He felt himself break through glass and suddenly the whole world broke away.

Dick woke up with a gasp, still feeling like he was falling. The vertigo rang through his head, disorienting him so much that for a moment he couldn't tell the thing he was looking at was the ceiling of his room.

It took a moment for him to gain his wits again. Slowly he sat up. His heart was racing. The feeling was too akin to a panic attack. He took the time to breath deeply and let his body relax to a more natural tempo.

He looked at the clock. It said eight pm. A part of his brain still reeling from his nocturnal horror noted how the red light of the clock was not unlike the timer on the bomb that ended his life. Everything felt too surreal for him to attach any emotion to that thought.

Instead he got up and walked to the sink. Distantly he felt the cold water wet his cupped hands, then his face. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and felt his blood circulate. His skin alit with feeling.

Dick's thoughts returned to him. He had a plan to exact tonight.

Dick picked up his helmet. He walked outside and put it in a side bag on the motorcycle. It wouldn't do to be seen in it just yet.

He started driving. After some ups and downs on the zigzag streets he reached a steep hill. At the top he could see the ocean. It reflected the full moon and night sky perfectly, to the point where you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. It was breathtaking. It was also facing a direction he was not used to. He was in the west coast.

Dick continued to drive. He had to stop to buy gas once. He followed the coast line until he found what he was looking for. A shipping yard.

Dick stored his bike in an empty shipping box. He took the helmet out of the side bag and put it on.

It was a snug fit. That would make it harder to augment later on, but not impossible. The two eyes were just big enough to not hamper his vision. The seem along the jaw line and under the chin looked completely sealed, but actually gave him enough air to breath comfortably.

Dick walked out and sealed the container shut. Then he started walking. He kept to the shadows. Back when he was Robin he would have jumped from the buildings and highest stacks of containers to remain unseen, but Dick didn't think for one minute that his body would tolerate that kind of strain now. So he walked. He occasionally had to run to clear wide gaps in the yard. Once or twice he had to avoid security guards, but he was swift and silent. They never even suspected anything was amiss.

After some time he came across two men. They were not security guards. One was dressed in rags, had an old military jacket and a dirty beanie partially covering ratty gray dreadlocks. His frizzy beard reach all the way to his chest and was more yellow then gray. His face was gaunt and his eyes wild.

They other one was much younger and of indeterminate ethnicity. He wore all black and had a jacket not unlike Dick's. He was pocketing a few bills and after that he drew out five rectangles of foil. The old man reached for them with religious awe. He then disappeared into the darkness.

The drug dealer walked off as well. Dick followed him. After a while they left the shipyard and walked down the coast. The path led over low dusty cliffs. Dick let the man gain some distance before he slid down one of them for cover. The ice plants and yucca on the steep decline were the only things keeping him from tumbling.

Dick landed on the beach. His boots sank into the wet sand. He started to follow his target again, keeping him just barely in sight over the cliffs. The tide was high tonight. He them had to dodge the many waves by climbing large mossy rocks. One time he was too slow and the water soaked him to his knees.

After some time they came to an old shack. It used to be a tiny fish and chips restaurant. The tuna shaped sign still held on by one chain. The man went inside. Dick went up some stairs that stretched from the beach to the shack.

He peered inside one of the windows. In the kitchen there was a small florescent glow coming from a flashlight. Cautiously he opened the door. Looking inside the kitchen he saw the man bending over a duffle bag, dropping in wads of cash and leftover rectangles of foil.

He got up and headed to the exit. Dick hid behind the door. Once the man reached the door Dick ran to him and delivered a swift punch to the head. Before the man could register what happened he blacked out.

Dick picked up the duffle bag and looked through the it's contents. Inside were wads of hundred dollar bills and bags of fine white powder. If Dick were to guess, it was cocaine. He took all the money and looked through the pockets. His hand bumped against something metal and bumpy.

He drew other a key. The tag had a logo for a storage company and a unit number.

Perfect. This was just what he needed.

Dick put the key in his pocket and began to search the man for anything valuable. He ignored the silver chain with a cross attached, and the wedding ring. He found a five inch pocket knife. He took that. He also found an expensive looking gunmetal digital watch, waterproof, and with all sorts of neat little features. He took that as well.

Then Dick came across a pistol. It was 9mm, like his. Though this one was covered in chrome and had a picture of Santa Muerta etched onto the handle. He looked at it, ejected the magazine, and put the gun in the duffle bag. He didn't a gun attached to the cartel. That would be more trouble than it was worth.

Dick got up, picked up the bag, and looked down at the man. This person was a drug dealer, a bottom feeder. His kind polluted every town and city in the world. Leaching off the living like vampires and leaving nothing but corpses in their wake. In their slow nights Batman and Robin would beat up these pests one by one , alleyway to alleyway. It was never enough though. Like rats, for every one they took down, ten more were in hiding.

His hand reached to the back of his pants where his gun was, but then he stopped. No, that would be petty, and would accomplish nothing. There was a pain in the back of his head that subsided as his hand fell to his side. He would not kill for such little things. He needed to keep his eyes on the bigger picture.

He would save that punishment for the more important people.

He headed out the door. He walked down to the beach and waded in the ocean. One by one he emptied the bags of cocaine into the water. Then he took the gun and threw it as hard as he could. Dick watched as it disappeared over the crest of a loamy wave. Then he dropped the bag.

Dick was about to leave, when he saw something. Just under the horizon, there was a small thread of light. It was dark orange, and shaded the sky above it a rich violet that faded to navy. The stars and moon still showed. He had caught the very beginning of the sunrise.

Something stirred inside him. He reached to the back of his helmet and unclasped it. Salty air hit his face. Dick closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then exhaled. It felt like his lungs were breathing out all the toxins in his body. All the fumes from that evil place underground.

Slade had taken so much from him, almost everything. He couldn't take this though. Dick felt the solidification of resolve settle in his mind. Nothing would take this moment from him. Dick has experienced and will experience many horrible things. The darkness that threatens to overwhelm him will never leave.

Dick opened his eyes. But here, and now, he had this.

Dick let his eye take in the light. Let his body be overwhelmed by the beauty. Let his mind catch a glimpse of nirvana.

He walked up the beach and sat in the sand. He took off his boots and socks, which were soaking wet. He stuffed them inside the boots, tied both shoelaces together, and slung them over his shoulder. He hiked up his pant legs to his knees. The clinging sand scratched at his skin.

Dick got up, and started walking. It would take much longer getting back this way, with the wet sand sinking beneath his feat, slowing him down. He didn't care. He watch as the sun rose and painted the sky fiery colors.

By the time he got back to the shipyard the air was filled with a misty pink. Dock workers were just starting to trickle in. Their hazy minds not registering the figure darting between containers.

Dick got to the box holding his bike. He opened it up and stepped inside. The rough concrete had shook off most of the sand, but Dick still had to take a few swipes at his feet. He put his socks and shoes back on, put his helmet in the side bag, and guided his motorcycle outside.

Once he got to the road he drove of. Heading to his next destination.


	6. Chapter 6

He ended up having to go to a library to look up where the storage company was. It was a small, cozy little place. Barely bigger than a trailer. Across the street from a preschool. Had absolutely no cameras. The librarian issued him a temporary password to use the internet. Dick used his most obscure signature to sign of the waver. One could barely tell he used the English alphabet, let alone decipher what it said.

There were only three computers in the back. They were big, blocky thing, yellowed with age. He chose the one in the corner. Took all of fifteen seconds to start up.

He pulled out the key and looked up the website on the back. It led to an independent company in the outer edges of Jump City. Dick wrote down the address on a slip of paper next to the monitor. He then looked up and wrote down directions on how to get there. He gave a quick 'thank you ma'am' to the librarian as he left.

The road leading right up to the storage company was poorly paved. Dick had to avoid several potholes in quick succession that nearly had him toppling over. Once he parked in some bushes he climbed over the fence. It took a good seven minutes to locate the right unit.

When he opened it almost the entire room was dark. He flicked on a sickly yellow light. There was an old metal table screwed into the concrete floor. On that table was a safe welded to the top. It had a combination lock.

He smirked, child's play.

Dick put his ear to the safe door, slowly turning the lock. He followed each soft click until a loud thump was heard. The door opened smoothly.

There were more bags of cocaine. There was also bags of pot and meth and oxy. There was also huge wads of money.

Dick paused.

Something wasn't right here. There was a whole fortune sitting in this dinky little safe. These things should be in a warehouse guarded by thugs. Either these guys were complete idiots just asking to be robbed or…

He took one of the stacks of cash and flipped through it. The top and bottom layers were your typical Benjamin Franklins, but the middle layers were ones. He dug in deeper. In the middle of the ones was cut a deep hole. In the middle of that hole was a little black plastic box. It had a red LED light that was blinking periodically.

Well well well. Someone was having trouble with a thief, and they were trying to catch him.

He put the stack back. As interesting as that was, it didn't help him right now.

Dick looked at his newly acquired watch. It was a little over eight o'clock am. He would to come back later, when it was more likely that he would catch someone.

His stomach growled. For now it was time to take care of his more mortal needs.

Dick closed the safe, spinning the wheel to relock it, and closed up shop. He got back to his bike and took off.

Once he got back to the city limits he went to a drive through. The food was greasy and none too appetizing, but the place had no cameras and he was looking to leave as small a trail as possible.

Speaking of which, he looked down. His outfit, while nice, was a bit conspicuous. It read 'punk kid who should be watched in case he vandalizes something'. Not what he was going for at the moment. With that in mind he went to the nearest thrift shop and bought some outfits, a large gray backpack to put them in, and a worn leather wallet for his money.

Dick went into the changing room to put on his new civilian clothes. He picked out some jeans, socks, tennis shoes, a white polo and a gray sweatshirt. Much better.

As he was taking off his shirt he caught sight of the mirror. For a second he paused. His eyes roamed down the scarred and bruised skin.

When he rose from the Lazarus Pit all his wounds from his time as Robin were healed. There were some he was proud of; a knife he took for a kid, a bullet glance as he rushed to disarm a bomb, an indentation from a pipe while he stopped a city wide computer virus. Some he wasn't so proud of; stupid little mistakes, lapses in concentration or awareness. Whether good or bad, he earned those wounds. They were a part of who he was.

Now.

Scratches littered his body. Permanent abrasions wound around his wrists and ankles. In the middle of his chest; jagged and crooked from his struggling, a swirl, forming a distinctly unmistakable S.

 _These scars were earned as well._

Shut up.

 _A smooth baritone voice hidden behind a black and orange mask._

 _You worked so hard for them. You should be proud._

Shut Up!

Dick's hearing started to distort. The chatter of happy shoppers started to echo, like they were in a stairwell. It got further and further, the words morphing into incoherent noises and moans and squeaks and shrieks and yowls. A ringing buzzed in his ear. It got louder and louder, closer and closer. It was gaining momentum, it was surging towards him. The ringing was unbearable.

In the mirror, his reflections smiled at him cruelly. It's eyes pierced his soul. It opened it's mouth.

 _You earned this._

Outside a crash boomed through the air. A man howled in pain and cursed. Dick felt his smile fall from his lips.

He finished dressing. He picked up his backpack, walked out of the dressing room, left the store. He walked and walked until he got to the parking lot. He drove away.

.

Dick got to his motel room, threw himself on the bed, and just stayed there.

Swirling shadows shaped like hands gripped his brain. They squeezed mercilessly. It was so painful. He felt like he was going to black out. He didn't.

He did fall asleep though. It wasn't restful. The hands followed him to his dreams. Despite this, he did wake up somewhat calmer.

The clock said three o'clock pm. It was still too early to do anything. So instead Dick changed into some sweatpants and a tee shirt and started to do some minor exercises. He tired out quickly, but he pushed himself on. Still, after a comparatively minute amount of pushups to what he should be able to do, he collapsed.

In the beginning of his captivity he kept to his workout routine religiously. He wanted to be prepared for his eventual escape; which he knew would happen. There was no equipment, but creativity new no bounds, and he made due with 'prison workouts' as Bruce would call them. He did pushups and crunches, in place jogging and jumping jacks. He even used the top of the bathrooms overly protruding doorframe to do pull ups.

This worked to keep up his spirit for a while. To truly keep a schedule he started to mark down the days by how many times he would receive food: two meals, one mark. His kept them under the bed so Slade wouldn't find out. His plans became trickier and more elaborate as the marks were added. But then the marks grew more and more numerous.

The lethargy started to settle into his body somewhere in his second month. He still kept his routine. It became harder and harder, but he couldn't give up, he just couldn't.

Then in the third month he started sleeping more. Slade wouldn't bother waking him, so he missed meals. This messed with his calendar, but that didn't bother him. Slade would disappear for weeks at a time, leaving him a crate of food so he wouldn't die. He would make up numbers to mark down, and that helped. Just as long as he had days to count, so it all wouldn't blur into one nightmare that would never end.

The problem came in the forth month; when he wasn't asleep, but he thought he was. He would stare off into oblivion for indeterminate amounts of time. Time felt like it was both crawling by and racing past him. No thought could stick to his mind. It was as if he was in a heavy mist. It weighed down on him. Even the littlest movement felt overwhelmingly unmanageable.

He would wake up from his stupor, or Slade would slap him out, and he would panic; wondering how much time had passed. He needed his calendar. Sometimes in his more desperate and panicked moments he would beg Slade to tell him how long he was down there. When that didn't work he would spit out empty threats. Slade knew they were just that, and ignored them.

One time in the fifth month he offered to give willingly the one thing he had, his body.

He doesn't want to think about what happened.

When they were done and he demanded his reward, Slade just walked away. The message was clear. There was only one thing he could do to get what he wants.

His routine suffered. His escape attempts became sloppier and more sporadic. More and more he would just lie in bed.

Somewhere in his sixth month, he stopped counting.

The sun hit Dick's face. He looked at the clock. It said it was four.

Dick rolled onto his back and started his crunches.

.

An hour later, after many breaks, he finished. Dick took a shower and dressed in his 'Work Clothes' and headed to the storage company.

He sat behind a dumpster; he stayed vigilant as the hours ticked by. It passed well into the night. Then Dick heard something. Three sets of feet.

The men opened the garage and proceeded to check the safe. One of them cursed.

"The seals been broken. He definitely checked it out." One of them said.

"Anything missin'?" Another asked.

"Nah, he didn' take nothin'. Told you this was a dumb idea."

"Well what do we do now?"

"Head back. Nothin' else to do."

The men closed the door and headed off. While they all climbed into a nondescript old car, Dick hid behind a wall. Letting them gain some distance; Dick drove after them without his lights on. After they got to the city limits he turned them back on and tried to always stay one car behind them so they wouldn't noticed they were being followed.

They came to a fairly unremarkable bar. The men went to a back door. Dick parked behind a dumpster and put his helmet on.

He climbed a fire escape and used his knife to unscrew a large vent cover. It maybe cliché, but in older buildings like this one the ventilation shafts were perfect for maneuvering around unnoticed. Once he undid all the rusty screws Dick climbed in and secured the cover behind. It was hard not to bump his helmet on the roof as he crawled, and he had to go extremely slow as to not stress the aluminum underneath him.

Dick had to check many rooms before he came to the right one. It was small and poorly lit; with only a desk and chair as furniture. There was a man sitting behind the desk; typing furiously on a laptop. The three men were standing behind it, all looking nervous.

"So, anything to report?"

"Didn't take the bait boss. Checked it out for sure, but nothin' was stolen."

"Told you it wouldn't work."

A whack sounded throughout the room. The smart mouth rubbed the back of his head in pain.

"Anyway, we'll have to come clean to Marcus and tell him his shipment was lost."

"Yeah?" The boss said. "And who do you think will break that news to. You?" He pointed to the speaker. "Or you?" he said to the quiet man next to him. "Or maybe even you." He said to smart mouth.

They all looked abashed.

"No. It's going to be me. And do you know who's head will be on a pike when Marcus flips his lid? ME!" The men jumped at his rise in voice.

"Now, that's not going to happen. You know why? Because you all going to go back out, you will set up a better trap, and you will catch our guy. I don't care how, but you'll do it. Otherwise I will tear off your asses myself and present them as payment for our dept. Do you hear me?!"

" _YES boss"_ Each one echoed.

"Good. Now get out."

Each man hurried to leave the room. The boss just sighed and continued to type on his laptop. This lasted for about thirty minutes or so until he rubbed his eye and closed the monitor. He then picked it up, put it in a duffle bag and walked out.

Dick scampered out as the boss headed out to his car. Dick was quick to fallow him as he got in and drove off.

Soon they came to a loft in an old abandoned factory. As he entered Dick took a detour to get to the roof. He quietly opened one of the large windows and creeped along the catwalk. By the time he got in the boss had already stashed away his computer. Dick had to wait until the man went into his bedroom and fell asleep before he started to look around.

It wasn't hard to find. The thing about concealing things is: you have to make the thing in question matched the general décor of the rest of the room. So when, for example, the room itself had bare minimum furniture and no other decorations to speak of, a large hanging picture really stood out.

Dick looked behind the picture, and sure enough, there was a safe. This one, with a digital keypad lock, was a bit more sophisticated.

Knotting his brows in frustration, Dick looked around for something to help him. He found a big metal flashlight in a junk drawer, and a box of powdered doughnuts in a cabinet.

That will do.

With the flashlight in hand he took the powdered sugar at the bottom of the box, lifted his helmet a little, and blew it on to the keypad. When the dust settled; four smudged fingerprints were visible.

Now came the tricky part. This safe didn't look like it was advanced enough to lockdown if he got the numbers wrong, but Dick wasn't willing to bet on that. Knowing all four numbers, and knowing that none are repeated, there were sixty-four possible combinations to choose from. It would take him at least five minutes to try to go through each one. Not ideal.

That being said, there was a way to cheat the system. People tended to use patterns to remember passwords, and the pattern he noticed formed a perfect three quarter star. Dick pressed seven, two, nine, and four. Sure enough, the door unlocked. He wiped off the powdered sugar before he opened it.

The laptop sat snugly inside. He took it out and settled on the table.

Dick felt his mind settle into a comfortable patter. This was his specialty. This was what his mind found most familiar. Pixels formed letters and numbers and shapes that all bended to Dick's will. Soon he was in the drug dealers most important files. He started looking for shipments and meeting times, locking each number into memory.

He closed the computer and got up. Just as he was about to turn around, he heard a shoe scuff on the concrete floor.

Faster than one could blink he reached to the back of his pants, grabbed his gun, and spun around.

He was met with the barrel of another gun.


End file.
